


a constant satellite of your blazing sun

by magicofthepen



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: (is hard), 50 drabbles, Audio: Gallifrey: Series 5, F/M, Friendship, Multi, brief appearances of Leela, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28995969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicofthepen/pseuds/magicofthepen
Summary: Narvin's loyalty once orbited around the Office of the President. It's a bit harder when the center of his universe is a specific Time Lord who can't seem to decide if she even wants him around.(Or: moments from another Gallifrey.)
Relationships: Leela/Narvin/Romana II, Narvin/Romana II
Kudos: 13





	a constant satellite of your blazing sun

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Gravity by Vienna Teng.

The first night he spends in Chancellor Narvin’s quarters, it’s hard to separate the nightmares from reality.

He’s not thinking about his own face disappearing into a screaming black hole and the single life fluttering in his chest. Not thinking about Leela, wandering in the Outlands among who knows how many hidden dangers ( _“she’ll be back soon,” Romana insists_ ). Not thinking about Romana, draped in the same presidential robes, still staring out at a shattered world like she can fix it.

He dreams of assassins and abandonment and spirits that devour you whole. 

He wakes in a dead man’s bed. 

* * *

“Narvin, you’ve swept for listening devices seven times already.”

“The technology is different here. They’ve had lifetimes of backstabbing to develop ways to monitor each other — ”

“Sounds just like the CIA to me.” 

Narvin inhales, a hiss of air between his teeth. “If they catch us — “

“They won’t.”

“As long as we’re _careful_.”

Romana has never been careful. That’s what he’s there for — to patch up the cracks of her mistakes. 

(She trapped them universes away from their dying world — imposters surrounded by assassins. There are cracks too gaping to fix.)

He runs an eighth sweep. 

* * *

A Time Lord without time travel, it’s like — it’s like a phantom limb, a missing sense. 

Narvin dreams he can still glimpse the Web of Time, an intricate tangle of maybes and never-moments, of branching possibilities and discarded options. In his waking hours, the Web is transparent, the timelines faded and out of reach. His time sense is ragged around the edges — here and now and flickering future paths that dissolve into a gray fog of nothing.

They don’t belong here. They are living their lives in an aborted timeline, and it’s going to swallow them whole.

* * *

The Councillors whisper, demand — fund this weapons project, support this infrastructure bill, grant this title to this ally-of-an-ally.

Narvin’s used to watching from the sidelines. The politicians snap and circle, and he’s one step removed, marked impartial by the black and white robes of his office.

True, impartiality was always a lie, and even more so once Romana took office. She was always too controversial, too audacious, for him to stay apart. 

But it’s one thing to have the terrifying realization that his place is by her side, and quite another to literally stand there, visible to the world.

* * *

There’s a skirmish in the Outlands, ex-slaves ( _Outsiders_ ) against a guard patrol. It’s the middle of the night, and Narvin is standing in Romana’s office as she fiddles with the sleeves of her ceremonial robe. He’s looking anywhere but at her. 

“Their communications are down — “ he tries. “I didn’t hear much before — “

“Were there casualties?” she asks, strained. She’s looking anywhere but at him.

“No one died,” he says, and it’s enough to lower her shoulders. She’s still pale, eyes still far off, and he tries to pretend he didn’t have the same reaction when the guard called.

* * *

“For the last time, the Outsiders will _not_ be returning to the Citadel unless they, as free citizens of Gallifrey, choose to take up residence here.” 

Her voice echoes around the Inner Council chamber, all fire and magnificence. Her righteous anger is so familiar — it would be comforting if his hearts weren’t aching.

“Change has come to Gallifrey, and change means _opportunity_. We have always been innovative. Now is the time to imagine a different, _brighter_ future for our world.” 

She is an indomitable presence — eyes flashing, chin lifted. There is a reason he would follow her anywhere.

* * *

The Outsiders are surviving, scraping together camps, building out of the dust of this world.

Officially, the Chancellor of Gallifrey says they must be resourceful, to have found the supplies they need in the Outlands. To have achieved this much on their own.

Unofficially, Narvin knows they are resourceful. He knows that Leela is good at adapting to changing, uncertain times. He knows that things go missing around the Capitol, food and clothing and medical supplies, quiet thefts that aren’t enough to make a fuss, but are registered for investigation by the Chancellery Guard.

Narvin makes sure they aren’t investigated.

* * *

“She _must_ have received the package.” Romana clutches the edge of her desk, hands white. 

“The communicator you sent hasn’t been activated,” Narvin says, weary. This is her third attempt at outreach to the rough encampments of Outsiders, clawing together an existence in the dry outskirts of this city. “Perhaps they didn’t realize what it was, perhaps they got rid of it — ”

“ _Or_ , perhaps the supply shipment _you_ sent out was raided. Perhaps _your_ messengers couldn’t be trusted.”

“You’re being paranoid,” he snaps. “Just because you don’t want to admit that Leela’s ignoring you — ”

Her glare is scalding.

* * *

The first rule: Don’t talk about Leela. 

Not since Romana’s messages were sent back unanswered, not since days dragged into weeks dragged into months, and he watched something in her eyes shatter.

The second rule: Don’t think about Leela. 

Don’t think about how part of Romana is always staring past him, grieving. Don’t think about how she would trade him in a heartsbeat, if it meant Leela by her side.

Don’t think about Leela’s quick laughter or her scowl or how she never backed down or how he never said goodbye —

She left Romana. He was just collateral damage.

* * *

They meet once a day. 

Romana stands behind her desk, eyes half-cast towards the Citadel outside her window. He debriefs. They argue. Outsider settlements. Time technology. Council bills. The futile possibility of escape. Rinse and repeat.

She doesn’t question where he gets his intelligence. He doesn’t tell her about the ears he’s whispering in, the network he’s building because maybe it’s the closest thing to home he can find here.

He notices — the movement of her shoulders, the twist of her hands, the hundreds of emotions hidden in her eyes. He wonders if he just wasn’t paying attention before.

* * *

The worst part is: he can see when Romana’s lying.

Her idealism is genuine, it’s always been genuine, no matter how infuriating and stressful and wonderful. She _wants_ to save this world.

Her confidence, however, has so many cracks running through it he’s surprised the Inner Council can’t tell. 

Maybe he finally knows her enough to see her strength for the mask it is. Maybe he’s watched her hide away enough during the war, on the Axis, to recognize the desperate grief in her eyes.

Maybe he resents that she isn’t unshakeable. Maybe he needs one of them to be.

* * *

There was a moment on the Axis — between nearly bleeding out and stepping through the portal into this cruel universe — there was a moment when Romana smiled at him.

He hadn’t entirely realized it was _possible_ for her to smile at him — not just in the general vicinity of him, although that was rare enough, but actually _at_ him, like she was _glad_ he was there.

Days pass, then weeks. He calls her Supreme Leader, she calls him Chancellor, they pretend that these roles are something more than an elaborate farce.

She doesn’t smile at him again.

* * *

It takes a while to sink in, the realization that they’re not going home. 

The crimson sunsets and hollow corridors are the same, but the world is a prison without windows, unable to see beyond its narrow pocket of time and space.

Romana still believes they can find the Axis again — or she pretends to, and really that’s close enough. He makes noncommittal noises and concentrates on sinking into the heliotrope robes of the Chancellorship, making himself unremarkable, part of the fabric of this world.

That’s how they’ll stay alive, him and her. The last of the Time Lords.

* * *

“You _really_ want to make an enemy of Councillor Rahvon? Do you know how many wealthy Regenerators he’s friends with?” 

“That’s exactly the _point_ , Narvin. You heard what he called the Outsiders — “

“Romana — “

“What he’s saying is _dangerous_. He’s riling up the former slave owners in the Outer Council — there were two attacks on the Outsiders in the last month alone, and my _Chancellor_ doesn’t seem to have a clue how that happened — “

“ _Romana_ — “

“Madam President,” she snaps.

He swallows, something icy and brittle lodging in his chest. “Madam President. I am doing my _best_.” 

* * *

If the President of Gallifrey is cold — well, that’s just what this planet teaches its people to be.

If the President of Gallifrey withdraws into herself — well, she is their Supreme Leader, she knows best. 

As long as she does her duty, what does it matter?

Romana snaps at him, Romana’s eyes are shattered glass, and of course it _matters_. It matters that she’s miserable here. It matters that she’s lonely, that she’s fighting hopeless battles yet _again_ , it matters that she’s losing the spark in her eyes.

It matters, but he can’t do anything to fix it.

* * *

Narvin dedicated his life to Gallifrey, and a raging virus is tearing it apart. He’s stuck in a distorted mirror, and it isn’t enough to feel like home.

Romana leaves the Panopticon and he’s five steps behind. She’s silhouetted against the great gleaming walls of the Council chambers.

She is all that is left of their Gallifrey, and he can’t look away from her, and some days it’s _suffocating_ — 

But he knows his place, his duty, even if she never spares him another kind word.

If he never sees her smile again, at least he can keep her breathing. 

* * *

He spends nights pouring through Chancellor Narvin’s files, memorizing names and histories and motivations. Accessing them is it’s own kind of game — what passwords are universal? How would this version of himself have protected his secrets?

He hacks into the presidential files too and falls asleep remembering Supreme Leader Romana scattered into atoms before her Council. This Gallifrey is more turbulent and angry than ever and if his intelligence is anything less than perfect —

He wakes each morning exhausted but never groggy. There’s a staser by his pillow, and he jolts awake at every noise in the night.

* * *

“I don’t need a _food taster_.” 

“I’ve read the records. Three out of the past seven assassination attempts on the Supreme Leader were poison.”

“You think the assassins would get more creative.”

He knows how the poisons would have destroyed her (no, not _her_ , but close enough) — burned her inside, choked her breath, snapped her timeline. They _were_ creative. 

“It isn’t funny.” 

“No, it isn’t. I’m _not_ putting someone else’s life at risk, Narvin, not for this. We’ll stop them at the kitchens, or — “

“Or?”

She shrugs — simple, careless. His stomach sinks all the way to the ground.

* * *

It’s quick — a staser blast in the southeastern stairwell. 

Two guards stun the sniper in the nearest courtyard. He’s a young engineer, smile bitter, motives unclear. But Narvin only learns the details later, as he stares at the occupied cell, face stone. Hands _not_ trembling.

Romana drops to the floor, her breath a broken hiss, more anger than pain. Narvin doesn’t _think_ — his knees slam onto stone ground, hands hovering uselessly at her scalded shoulder, throat one swollen lump. 

“Terrible aim,” she mutters. 

And when she grips his wrist, eyes glowing in defiance, he’s the one not breathing. 

* * *

For a week, he walks by her side every time she leaves the presidential palace. He trusts himself more than her guards. Even those that aren’t potential threats don’t care nearly enough about her life.

She snaps at him after the third day — something about disrespect, and fragility, and how she is not his _problem_.

“Protecting the President is well within my jurisdiction,” he says, staring straight ahead.

 _You are my friend_ , he doesn’t say. Her only real friend is gone; she never _truly_ considered him one. 

_You are my world_ , he doesn’t say, but he’s terrified it’s true.

* * *

Leela sends him a message. More of an order — too many are sick, they need more medical supplies than they’re getting. They need them now, not after being dragged through Gallifreyan bureaucracy. 

Narvin knows the names of all the guards. He knows which ones were always more loyal to the Chancellor’s office (they protect the President, but they serve him). The supplies are delivered by mid-morning.

The supplies are not delivered quietly enough. Romana learns. Romana confronts him, and even though he only admits to sending them, she knows why he did it.

She knows Leela asked him first. 

* * *

Romana starts hiding from him — meetings become memos, the relief of seeing her each day ( _still alive_ ) dissolves into a longing he can’t name when her office staff turns him away. 

She is the only person here who knows him. She is the only person here he trusts, as much as he trusts anyone. 

It won’t last. She’s as alone as he is, and one day she’ll have to stop pretending she can do this by herself. 

Narvin stands beside her at the Council meeting, both of them surrounded by enemies, and she doesn’t look at him at all. 

* * *

He catches the next assassin before shots are fired. 

He knows the personal histories of each of Romana’s staff, finds the one who’s quietly plotting to atomize the President in her sleep, disappears the traitor to an interrogation room. 

After, he barges into Romana’s rooms. It’s late, but she’s still behind her desk, startling when he enters.

“One of your secretaries was planning to kill you,” he says. “I’ve changed your access codes.”

Narvin expects anger, at his meddling. It takes him a moment to notice how she’s turned, scrubbed her eyes. 

It takes him another to notice her tears.

* * *

He has seen Romana overthrown, in hiding. He has seen her cruel, blinded by power. He has seen her crumpled, unable to stand.

He has never seen her cry.

The tear stains she didn’t wipe away glint in the dim light, her eyes red-rimmed. Her chin lifts, fists clench, but there’s no spark behind them.

She looks small. He’s never thought that before. 

On her desk — a paper note. Her own handwriting, returned again. She never really gave up on Leela. She’s never going to.

He should leave. She’s going to demand he leaves. 

“Which one?” she asks, quiet. 

* * *

_The assassin._ Narvin finds his footing. 

“By the outer door. Eliana.”

She nods, expression blank. A silence stretches — she’s frozen him out for days. He wants to shout at her. He can’t find the energy.

“The supply shipment made it,” she says, finally. 

“Ah. Good.”

He breathes in. Out.

“Would you — ” he starts, fiddles in his pockets. “Councillor Dorla brought these orange candies to today’s committee meeting. Bit of an acquired taste. But.”

Romana stares and stares. And then she makes a noise that might be a laugh.

“Better idea.” She stands, takes out a bottle of wine. 

* * *

Something ends, something begins. Romana pours him a glass, and they sit in prickly quiet. He looks away while she dries her cheeks properly. 

“You are remarkably unconcerned about the murderous habits of the palace staff.” Narvin sips the wine, makes a face.

“Not a fan?”

“Of assassination?”

“Of the wine.”

“We’re not talking about the wine.”

“We don’t need to talk about the assassin either. You stopped her. Apparently you _are_ half-decent at your job.” It’s meant to be a jab, probably, but her voice is dry, almost amused. 

Maybe he’s just looking for any warmth he can find.

* * *

A week passes. Romana’s speaking to him again, the usual daily meetings. Rinse and repeat. It has to be enough. 

(When he closes his eyes, he keeps seeing her tears. He keeps remembering the vampire world: him bleeding, struggling for consciousness, her holding him. He keeps aching with something he can’t name.)

The week isn’t that busy, but Narvin is still left exhausted. It’s this world — the absence of home, rooting deep. 

He’s half-asleep over his notes when there’s a knock. Narvin opens his door, stares. 

Romana hovers, not quite looking at him. “Do you still have those candies?” 

* * *

It starts slow. It starts quiet. They take turns knocking at the end of the day until it becomes habit. They take turns knocking until there’s no need to knock at all. 

“Your legal recognition of Mancipia is causing a stir,” he says, several weeks into this arrangement.

She swirls her wine glass. (She keeps offering him a drink; he keeps trying them and turning her down. Too dry or too sweet or too _something_. Whatever it is she likes, he doesn’t have the taste for it.)

“That was the plan.” Romana says, more certain than she’s sounded in months. 

* * *

Something lights in his chest — admiration, at her boldness. Conviction, that defending the Outsiders _is_ right. 

When did that happen — not just a choice to follow Romana, but a fierce belief in her policies? On the Axis, lurching between warped realities, seeing all the ways Gallifrey can be cruel, did he start to see more clearly the cruelty he’d always dismissed as acceptable? Or was it the war, the bitter bloodshed? (Or was it as simple as time, time with the two people he once never dreamed of allying with, the only people he has left to trust?) 

* * *

A month passes. Another. Romana is still sparking Council complaints, he is still circling, watching, guarding her back.

“It’s been weeks since the last clash between city guards and Outsiders,” he reports, hands clasped. “Longer since the last assassination attempt.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Is that optimism I’m hearing, Chancellor?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. We could still all be murdered tomorrow.”

“A _lovely_ reassurance from my chief security officer.” 

Narvin has traded verbal barbs with her a long time. He’s familiar with the bite in her voice when she speaks to him. He’s much less used to its absence. 

* * *

Romana stops him at the end of a meeting. Twists her hands. Doesn’t look him in the eye.

“Have you seen Leela, since she left the Capitol?” she asks, quiet.

Narvin inhales. (The first rule.)

“No, of course not.”

She does look at him then, scrutinizing. “Is that true?”

“ _Yes_ , it’s true.”

“I thought, that perhaps — ” She shrugs in pretend nonchalance. “She did ask you for help.”

“She only sent a message.” He takes breath. “I would tell you, if. Well.”

Her eyes are too sad, and something clenches inside of him. But she nods, slow, and he exhales. 

* * *

Romana still misses Leela more than she needs him. Another constant, sure as sunrise. 

The Outsiders draw the city’s attention more and more every day. Skirmishes continue, even if Narvin successfully prevents the guards from using lethal force. Tempers raise. Something has to break soon, or bend. 

Leela is their public leader. She could never ignore Gallifrey’s President forever. 

He watches Romana’s eyes light up when Leela finally returns a message, hears the hope in her voice at the possibility of a diplomatic meeting. 

He is part of the background, a certainty. Leela is the foreground, she always has been. 

* * *

Romana’s forced optimism grates, especially when it’s the product of a standoff between guards and Outsiders at the mining site near Mancipia. _An opportunity for open negotiation_ , she calls it, and he calls it a threat to stability, a potential for bloodshed. 

Narvin can’t control Leela’s security like he can Romana’s. It’s easier to reassure himself that she’s safe when she’s far away from this place and its unabashed cruelty. But he’s overruled, because of course he is.

Leela arrives in the Capitol, a storm in her eyes. He calculates the odds that these negotiations fail and braces for impact. 

* * *

Narvin doesn’t resent Romana exactly, but he does wish she would learn to keep her personal emotions on a tighter leash. She is pretending to be someone else, and that _someone else_ shouldn’t look so worried, so _angry_ , at Leela’s attempted assassination.

He stands beside her, watching from a distance as Leela sleeps in the infirmary. _Leela will be fine_ , he repeats, and his stomach clenches. 

_You can’t compromise everything for her_ , Narvin wants to tell Romana. _This world needs you more than she does._

But it’s too easy to remember Romana’s tears. Narvin swallows and doesn’t say a word. 

* * *

They talk all the way to Kavil’s lab — guesses, suspicions, plans. Narvin can’t grasp the full picture of Allora’s plot, not yet. But his intelligence is enough to have a recording device already on him, enough to not be surprised when Kavil finds the device in his rooms. 

When Romana enters his cell, sharp and scathing, it’s easy to see her theatrics for what they are. It’s a relief to be sure.

When he pleads with her to trust him, it’s an act, and it isn’t. She does trust him, but she didn’t always. He remembers how that felt. 

* * *

But he doesn’t anticipate the attack on Romana. He shouts her name without thinking, even knowing he can’t reach her, even knowing he needs Allora to trust him. There’s nothing, _nothing_ he can do, and he falls back against the wall, numb, his hearts pounding too fast.

 _If she dies_ —

If she dies, what is he meant to _do_ on this world? 

But she doesn’t. She _doesn’t_. 

_I’m glad you are alright_ , Romana says when she sees him, as if she wasn’t the one nearly killed. 

She smiles, warm. She smiles _at_ him, and his hearts don’t stop racing. 

* * *

Too many close calls. Too much almost-death. Narvin throws himself into his network of eyes, plants information and watches where it turns up, catalogs rumors. He keeps a personal eye on Minister Kavil, an even closer one on Castellan Slyne. 

Leela and her new friends still sneak into the Citadel sometimes. It isn’t hard to catch one of them running through an old passage.

The girl looks terrified. Narvin lets her go with a tip about a poorly guarded storeroom, an insistence that it didn’t come from him. 

This time, he doesn’t ask for any favors. Next time, he will. 

* * *

Allora’s not the only one with suspicions. In the chaos following the assassination and Project Rassilon and the emancipation, changes in the President and her High Chancellor could pass unnoticed. Narvin could gather his intelligence, do his best to feed Romana the information she should know, try not to think about how quickly his other self discovered the truth.

But her enemies — their enemies — are watching more closely, circling, sniffing for blood. Narvin digs up what dirt he can on these Councillors, sends out whispers of scandal so they can chase each other instead. 

It won’t be enough.

* * *

Romana looks up. “You managed to steal Kavil’s data?”

“I very carefully made a _copy_ of Kavil’s full data set on our genetic codes.” Narvin gestures to her screens. “It’s on your secret server, you can access it whenever you like.”

She nods at the nearest chair. “Now’s fine.”

“Now?”

“I don’t have any meetings for the rest of the night.” Her mouth quirks upward. “Does trying to save the world not fit into your schedule?”

Narvin rolls his eyes and sits, and the evening dissolves into genetic analysis and half-baked, hopeful theorizing. He barely notices how late it gets. 

* * *

“The budgetary hearing is tomorrow,” Romana says another afternoon. “Councillor Rahvon is complaining about cuts to an infrastructure project he’s been promising.”

“Are you trying to antagonize him?” 

“In this case, no. Actually, it wouldn’t be terrible if we could cough up the funds. It might placate Rahvon, and that housing block _could_ do with an upgrade.” She hands him a datapad. “I’ve assessed the budget cut options, but — ”

Narvin swaps their datapads with an habitual ease. “I’ve already looked over the first draft. Check my notes.”

He sits. The chair opposite her desk has become a familiar place. 

* * *

Narvin is always watching. Paranoia is a virtue here, as far as he’s concerned, no matter how exhausting. The whispers about Romana, and to a lesser extent him, are adding up. The resentment against the Outsiders rumbles louder with each day.

He asks Maris for political information only occasionally, partially because it’s useful, and partly because he doubts she believes that his concern for Leela is genuine. Believing that he’s trying to stay informed enough to stop a conflict before it starts is more plausible. 

Sometimes, he tells himself he’s protecting Leela for Romana’s sake. Most times, he doesn’t bother. 

* * *

Romana insists on dragging every temporal scientist on the continent into the Citadel, and Narvin is stuck with exhausting nights of background checks, in the hopes of avoiding inviting any would-be assassins. 

(His initial research focuses too much on potential threats to the President. It’s why he doesn’t catch the twisted experiments until later.)

But the greatest threat appears to be boredom, and after hours of scanning documents, he’s happy to leave Romana listening to this droning, over-competitive bunch. 

He calls them crackpots, she snaps back, but there’s no ice in the banter. 

He’s gotten used to the teasing, too. 

* * *

What he doesn’t expect: the word _Axis_ crackling from the fabric of reality itself. The terrifying hope of going _back_. 

Narvin has adapted to this world because he’s had to, but these Chancellor’s robes have never sat right on his shoulders. The lack of TARDISes, the muddling of his time sense — he wants to be in a world that feels clear again. He wants to be in a world that feels right again. 

Narvin sees Romana’s face when the message comes through, and he knows: this world isn’t hers either, no matter how much she pretends it could be. 

* * *

But going back, going _home_ , isn’t that simple. Gallifrey was broken when they left — are their odds of saving it any better now?

When Narvin started this journey, he was the accidental extra traveler, the unwanted member of their party. When he started, he had all his lives ahead of him.

What happens, if they return? What happens, when Romana’s immediate circle grows larger than the two of them? When she doesn’t need to trust him, doesn’t need him beside her? 

He’s grown used to her trust. Her teasing, her rare smiles. He doesn’t want to go back completely. 

* * *

When he tells Romana of Lord Zachar’s capture, of the charges against him, she looks so tired. 

He doesn’t blame her. Gallifrey, any Gallifrey, has always been a place of cruel compromises. But even he has come to resent his justifications for turning a blind eye, his dabbles in darkness for the greater good. 

She wants to do more than she can, she always does. Romana cares about helping people, cares so much it hurts, and so does Leela. That’s why they burn bright at the center of his universe. That’s why they are always stronger on the same side. 

* * *

What he doesn’t expect: Romana’s insistence that he should be the one to talk to Leela. 

She has known Leela longer, better. No matter how angry Leela is, that old friendship endures under the surface. He’s seen the way Leela speaks to Romana, like she’s trying hard to stay distant. She wouldn’t have to try so much if she didn’t care. 

_There’s too much history between us_ , Romana says. _That’s the point_ , Narvin wants to argue.

But she wouldn’t listen if he tried. And, well. It’s a bit hard to argue with her when she’s just called him a friend. 

* * *

They do end up there in the end — the three of them in the middle of a township surrounded by soldiers. Trapped in the heart of a brewing battleground. A likely slaughter.

Romana and Leela argue — Leela’s eyes flickering with distrust, Romana’s full of desperation. They push, snap, beg. They go quiet. They listen. 

When Narvin exhales in relief, it isn’t just because the day won’t end in civil war. It’s both of them admitting, at last, that they want the same things. 

It’s the feeling of peace between his hearts, as they return to the city together. 

* * *

When he started this journey, he had all his lives ahead of him.

Now, it’s so much easier for any day to be his last. Now, the Daleks swarm the Citadel and he’s terrified. 

When he started this journey, he was the unwanted, the intruder. Now, there are people he cares for, people who care about _him_. Now, he realises, as the door grinds slowly shut behind him: so much of his terror isn’t for himself. 

He doesn’t want to die. But whatever his story is, it doesn’t make sense without them. 

The world tips under his feet. He stays. 

* * *

The suns are low in the sky. The townships are distant, ignorant of the danger. Romana is frozen at his side, eyes cast to the horizon. 

It isn’t the first time he’s seen her tears, but it is the first time she meant him to. The first time she didn’t try to hide. 

_I just want to go home, now._

He spent so long doubting her trust in him. He isn’t doubting now. 

They have to keep moving, and they will. But she isn’t unshakeable, and he doesn’t need her to be. She’s his President, but she’s his friend, too. 

* * *

The Daleks are defeated. The portal back awaits, shimmering after Leela steps through. 

Apprehension twists Narvin’s stomach — what are the odds of success, really? 

_I think this is a risk worth taking_ , Romana says, _Don’t you?_

Gallifrey is broken, and he’s not the same person he was when he left. But Romana meets his eyes, hopeful, determined, and the twisting in his stomach eases. It doesn’t matter how much is wrong with their Gallifrey — as long as it’s _theirs_ , as long as he’s fighting for it beside her, they will make it right. 

They will make it home.


End file.
